Mystery

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He rubbed his face.

  I said, “Even if they are financially secure, there could be a non-economic motive. Tiara decided to squeeze the family and they opted for damage control.”

  “Defending the castle.” He logged off. “I need to find a way to get closer to these aristocrats.” Placing a palm against a pitted cheek, he grinned. “Maybe I should start with the doctors. Go in asking about dermal sandblasting or whatever the hell they do with a train wreck like this. Hell, maybe liposuction, too, if they’ve got industrial hoses.”

  I said, “Mr. Rogers loves you just the way you are.”

  “Plus my health insurance doesn’t cover demolition and renovation and Connie Longellos is a drunk who hung with Muhrmann, so let’s start with the goddamn obvious place.”

  “Straight line between two points.”

  “No longer far-fetched, lad.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I said so.”

  We drove back to Encino. The house on Portico Place was pretty under afternoon sun, ocher face kicked down to a serene buttermilk hue, trowel marks lending depth to the finish, bougainvillea blossoms glowing like garnets.

  Just as before, the white BMW and the bronze Lexus occupied the cobbled motor court.

  Milo directed me to a spot up the block with an oblique view of the gates. We sat for a while before he phoned John Nguyen and asked about a subpoena of all Suss financial records.

  Nguyen said, “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “What?”

  “Making me the bad parent. The answer’s no, now go clean your room.”

  Ten more minutes passed, during which Milo polluted the Seville with cigar smoke and returned a message from Rick. A clinic that tested for STDs and genetic disorders was situated in a Cedars-affiliated building on San Vicente. Rick had phoned the director, an immunologist he knew casually, only to be barked at.

  Any breach of patient confidentiality would be fought aggressively and Rick should know better.

  Milo said, “So much for professional courtesy. Sorry.”

  “Guy’s always been a dick, don’t worry about it.”

  “That’s why I love you.”

  “That’s the only reason?”

  “You want me to start listing?”

  “Nah. Wait until you’re home and have time to expound.”

  After another quarter hour, Milo decided to ring Phil and Connie Suss’s gate buzzer.

  “Not that I have any idea how to explain my interest.”

  “You can always take the soft approach, see how they react.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Apologetic, self-deprecating, the name Suss came up in the personal effects of a victim, if they’d be kind enough to spare a few minutes.”

  “Genuflect and kiss ass,” he said. “I’d rather get my face sanded.” A beat later: “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

  Just as he was reaching for the door handle, Connie Suss-Longellos stepped out her front door, wearing a black-velvet tracksuit and running shoes, no makeup, blond hair tied in a high pony. Starting up the Lexus, she lowered the hardtop and drove to the gate.

  Filigree parted electrically. She turned south.

  Milo said, “Oh Lord of Detection, lead us to the Promised Land.”

  A previous trip had taken forty years.

  I kept my mouth shut.

  onnie Longellos-Suss drove to a nail salon on Ventura near White Oak.

  Milo said, “Don’t see the river Jordan anywhere.”

  She stayed inside for thirty-two minutes and he took the opportunity to murder a chili dog from a nearby stand and slurp two Cokes. When she stepped outside examining a silver manicure, he was rubbing a greasy lapel stain with soda water.

  Down came the top on the Lexus for a half-mile drive east into Sherman Oaks. She parked in front a boutique named Poppy’s Daydreams.

  No additional spaces.

  Milo said, “Circle the block.” Then: “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “There’s an Orange Julius and I filled up on the brown stuff.”

  I drove around the block, was nearing the clothing store when Connie reappeared, checked her parking meter, fed coins, continued on foot.

  One block east to a bistro named Max Cuisine.

  Milo said, “Wonder if that means portion-sized. Hang a U and park across the street.”

  By the time we reached the restaurant Connie had been served. Her plate said the portions were anything but generous: something small and pale and vaguely fowl-like floating on a cloud of green wisps. Bottle of designer water at her elbow, untouched bread basket. Her fork hung midair as she perused a copy of Modern Painter.

  Too late for the lunch crowd, too early for dinner, and she was the only patron. But for the lace-trimmed streetwalkers and absinthe-addled boulevardiers inhabiting a collection of Toulouse-Lautrec prints, the only other human face in sight was a heavy woman in a chef’s toque smoking at a far table while scanning Le Monde.

  When we entered, Connie Suss ignored us. When we got two feet away she paid attention.

  Milo’s badge unhinged her mouth. “Is everything okay? With my husband?”

  “Everything’s fine, ma’am. May we sit down?”

  “Um ... I guess so. What’s going on?”

  She put the fork down, then the magazine. Handsome woman, with clear blue eyes and clean, symmetrical features. She’d managed to maintain the tan while avoiding conspicuous damage. Maybe the color was spray-on. Or something her brother-in-law or sister-in-law had provided. Did doctors do that kind of thing? In Beverly Hills, probably.

  We sat on either side. The table’s small size enforced intimacy. She scooted an inch from Milo’s bulk, found herself closer to me, and grimaced. I gave her some space.

  “What’s going on, guys?”

  “Sorry to bother you—is it Ms. Suss or Ms. Longellos?”

  “Depends.”

  Milo raised an eyebrow.

  “What I mean,” she said, “is I use Longellos professionally but legally I’m Suss. When I met my husband I was already established so keeping my maiden name seemed easier.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “Did, I’m retired. Finance, investment banking, that’s how I met my husband, I managed money with a company that handled his family’s finances. Then I got into art—why is this important? Why am I talking about anything to the police?”

  “It’s really nothing,” said Milo, “but we need to be thorough. Your name came up in the personal effects of a victim.”

  “A victim? What kind of victim? I don’t understand.” She inched back.

  “Homicide, ma’am.”

  Connie Longellos’s head shot forward as if she’d been shoved brutally. “What? What on earth would my name be doing with a—this is crazy, you must be mistaken.”

  “Connie Longellos,” said Milo. “We traced you through that name.”

  “Well, that’s crazy, that’s really totally insane.” She fingered the zipper of her track jacket. Lush velour, tiny logo on the sleeve. An Italian brand I’d never heard of. “Who is this victim?”

  “A woman named Tiara Grundy.”

  “Now I know it’s insane. I have no idea who that is.”

  “She also went by Tara Sly.”

  “Same answer, guys. That one sounds like something a porn actress would use. No, you’re totally mistaken, I don’t know any Tiara or Tara anybody. How’d my name come up—was it on a piece of art? I’ve sold a lot of art in my day, I suppose she could’ve been a customer.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Milo.

  “Then what? Where was my name?”

  “Personal effects.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Milo didn’t answer.

  “You come barging in but won’t tell me?”

  “At this point, we need to be discreet, Ms. Suss. What about Steven Muhrmann?”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know Steven Mu
hrmann?”

  She chuckled. “You guys are wasting your time, this must be a computer mixup.”

  “How about Stefan Moore?”

  “How about not,” said Connie Suss. “That sounds like a movie monster, one of those Japanese films.”

  “Stefan?”

  “Merman. Merman Invades Tokyo.” She laughed.

  Milo didn’t.

  “Sorry, I’m sure you’re doing your job,” she said, “but you have to admit it’s weird coming in here while I’m trying to have my dunch—that’s a made-up word I use for dinner and lunch. I get GERD—reflux disease. So I like to eat early. Like a senior citizen.”

  She eyed the ghost of the stain on Milo’s jacket. “You come in and throw names at me, that’s pretty darn weird.”

  She reached for her magazine.

  Milo said, “Markham Suss.”

  Her hand withdrew. “My father-in-law? What does he have to do with this?”

  “Tiara Grundy knew him. Well.”

  “Mark passed away a while back.”

  “You don’t seem surprised by the relationship.”

  “Of course I’m surprised.”

  “Honestly, you didn’t seem surprised, ma’am.”

  She exhaled. “Okay, you’re obviously talking about one of Mark’s sluts, but that has nothing to do with me. What, she got herself killed and she had my business card or something? Maybe Mark recommended my gallery to her. Though I can’t recall his ever having an interest in the gallery. Or bringing any of them in—I used to own a glass gallery not far from here but I closed it down because we got a terrific offer on the building and frankly I was tired of working.”

  “One of his sluts,” said Milo. “So there were a lot of them.”

  “Sluts were pretty much a fixture in Mark’s life, it’s no big secret, Officer—is it Detective?”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Excuse me. Lieutenant. Once my husband and I got serious, before he took me to meet his parents, he warned me to expect some strange things.”

  “Such as?”

  “A little more ... freedom of expression than some folk.”

  “Extreme tolerance?”

  “Mark might’ve called it that,” she said, “but to me it was extreme ostrich-in-the-sand-ness. The unspoken truth, you know?”

  “Denial.”

  “Denial implies pretending. Mark made no pretense—I’m sorry, I feel disloyal talking about this. Now could you please let me dunch in peace?”

  I said, “Everyone was aware of Mark’s behavior but no one acknowledged it.”

  “If Lee—my mother-in-law—could live with it, what was it my business?” She frowned. “Not that any of this is your business, Mark’s been gone for nearly a year so he obviously had nothing to do with anything happening to this Tiara person.”

  Milo said, “And you’ve never heard of Steve or Stefan Muhrmann.”

  “Asking me again won’t change the facts, Lieutenant.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm what?”

  “Your name was associated with Muhrmann a little more directly.”

  Connie Longellos-Suss’s blue eyes bugged. “What are you talking about?”

  The chef in the corner looked up from her paper.

  Milo said, “Ma’am, I’m terribly sorry to upset you but a terrible crime’s taken place and when evidence surfaces I’m obligated to follow up.”

  “I don’t know any Merman. Or Godzilla or Rodan. This is unreal.”

  “You’re not curious about how your name came up with his?”

  “No, because it’s ridiculous.” Sagging. “Oh, no, you’re kidding.”

  “What?”

  “Could this be another identity theft thing?”

  “You’ve had identify theft problems?”

  “A few years ago someone ran up bills on one of my credit cards. Idiots, they used a platinum card to buy fast food and computer games. I closed the account and there’ve been no problems since. But once stuff hits the Internet—are you saying this Merman is pretending to be me?”

  “Steven Muhrmann used you as a reference to rent a house. And someone using your name actually sent a letter.”

  “That’s psychotic.”

  “The house is on Russell Avenue, in Los Feliz,” said Milo.

  “You might as well be talking Greek. At least that I’d understand, my father was Greek.”

  Milo paged through his pad, read off the P.O.B. in Pacific Palisades.

  She said, “I’ve never owned a post office box in my life.”

  “Ma’am, I have to ask you a somewhat ... difficult question, so please don’t take offense. Have you ever been in rehab?”

  She stared at him. Burst into laughter. “In rehab? What on earth for?”

  “You do have a DUI.”

  “That? Oh, man, you guys are like ... that was totally stupid.”

  “Stupid, how?”

  “Don’t your police files give you details?” she said. “About what actually happens at arrests?”

  “The file lists you with a DUI conviction.”

  “Then let me give you the facts: It was one of those New Year’s Eve things. When you people do those random stops. The irony is my husband and I weren’t even partying, we decided to stay home, enjoy some peace and quiet.” Laughing softly. “We drank some wine. Riesling. I had two glasses and then I needed some ... I got my ...”

  Peach-colored blush seeped into the corners of her tan face. “What the heck, you’ve already ruined my meal. I needed a feminine product and I’d run out, okay? Normally it’s Phil—my husband—who does nighttime runs to the pharmacy or the 7-Eleven or whatever, but that kind of thing makes him squeamish so I went. And got pulled over randomly about a half a minute later. And”—she sighed—“failed a stupid Breathalyzer. But like at one-tenth of a percent, the whole thing was ridiculous. I tried to explain to those morons—and yes, you people acted like morons—that I’d just gone out to get some darn tampons, all I’d had were two glasses of Riesling. They looked at me like I was a criminal, said I’d blown .09, which was more than the legal limit of .08. Then they arrested me. I went hysterical. So how did you geniuses handle that? Cuffed me and shoved me in the back of a police car. At that point, I totally lost it, started screaming, begged them to let me call Phil. They ignored me. The stress got me bleeding heavily and my hands were cuffed so I couldn’t do anything about it.”

  Her eyes pooled with tears. “Just remembering it is utterly humiliating, but what the heck, you want details, I’ll give you details. I bled all over their stupid car and when they saw it they freaked out, thought I’d cut myself. If they’d taken the time to listen, all they needed to do was hand me a darn tampon, but no, that was too logical. Instead they called in the paramedics, who showed up and checked me out and ended giving me a stupid tampon. By that time, I’d been gone from the house for over an hour and Phil was worried. He got in his car, drove toward the drugstore, saw my car, pulled over. Guess what they did?”

  Milo said, “Gave him a Breathalyzer.”

  “Bingo,” said Connie Suss. “Random, my butt. There must be some manual you people have about harassing honest, taxpaying citizens. Luckily, Phil passed. Even though he had three glasses of Riesling. He weighs a lot more than I do and I guess the time lapse helped. In the end, Phil convinced them not to take me to jail but I got a ticket and had to do community service. I ended up giving classes in art appreciation to some inner-city kids. You guys promised me my record would be wiped clean. What, you lied? Figures.”

  She picked up her fork, plucked a tine, and set off a tiny musical tone. “Now I’ve told you about the most humiliating experience of my life. Now you can leave.”

  Milo said, “Sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Don’t apologize, just give me some peace and quiet.”

  Milo hung his head.

  Connie Suss said, “What are you so sullen about?”

  “The questions I have to keep asking.
”

  “Good Lord, now what?”

  “Your name came up as a patient at a rehab program. Where Steve Muhrmann was also in treatment.”

  Her hands gripped the table. “This is psy-cho-tic. Where is this supposed place?”

  “Pasadena. Awakenings.”

  “The only thing that takes me to Pasadena is the Rose Bowl, and the last time we attended the game was four years ago. This has to be an identity theft thing.” Her brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Maybe it’s one of those Medi-Cal frauds, where they bill for services that never take place? I will swear on a stack of Bibles that I have never ever been in any kind of rehab, nor do I have a drinking problem, nor do I know any of my father-in-law’s sluts by name, nor have I rented a post office box.” Pausing for breath. “The same goes for any relationship with a Mer-Man.” Giggling. Shrill. She turned a hand into a swooping jet plane. “Watch out, Tokyo.”

  The chef peered our way.

  “Hilarious,” said Connie Suss.

  Milo said, “Tiara Grundy’s face was on the news.”

  “I never watch the news, too depressing.” She patted Milo’s cuff. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “For—”

  “Totally eradicating my appetite, I’ve been trying to take off a few pounds, you made it easy.”

  Sliding bills from an alligator purse, she walked over to the chef. “It was delicious, Françoise, but I’m going to take this home.”

  “Certainly, Connie.”

  Françoise took the plate into the kitchen. As Connie Suss waited, she kept her back to us.

  Milo said, “Thanks for your time, ma’am.”

  No answer.

  As we left, she said, “You should thank me. It’s people like me who finance this comedy routine you pretend is a job.”

  series of calls to Valley Traffic confirmed the details of Connie Suss’s DUI.

  “I hate when they’re credible,” said Milo. “You feel anything deceptive about her?”

  “Anyone can be fooled,” I said, “but she seemed real.”

  “So scratch one family member. Along with the whole damn case I’ve been building. Maybe she’s right and it’ll come down to a scam—and that psychiatrist Manlow was in on it. She also seemed straight, but like you said.”